Poem by Josephine Preston Peabody

Chestnut Stands

I wonder why you feel, somehow,
  It's wrong to leave a Chestnut stand,
With all so much of what you want
  In both your pockets and your hand.
I always have to turn around;--
  It sounds so hurt--I don't see why--
That little high-up crying sound
  I don't remember by and by.

There is not anything so good
  As Chestnuts (when they're hot) can be.
It must be fun to count them out,
  With One for You and One for Me;
And yet it stays so doleful there,
  --For all the People going by,--
And breathing frosty on the air,
  Like something trying not to cry.

--It Isn't something I was Told!--
  I know it's small and scared and thin.--
It's like when both your hands are cold,
  And Pockets you can't put them in!
--Like something happened long ago;
  --Like feeling Homesick,--yes, and Shy;
Like being Sorry,--when you know
  You won't remember, by and by.

1. The Sorrows
2. Church-Time
3. Spinning in April
4. Little Side-Streets
5. The Beggar-Man

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